


Nightmares of Alpha Lupi

by Wecanhaveallthree



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:28:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23146975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wecanhaveallthree/pseuds/Wecanhaveallthree
Summary: Woe to the vanquished.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	Nightmares of Alpha Lupi

Breath that does not mist glass. Fur yellowed by dripping wax. This is the dream, upturned. This is the dream, outcast. This is the dream, undreamed.

Imagine yourself in your full wholeness, complete and strong. You are surrounded by foes, but what matter they? They cannot reach you, let alone harm you. You are whole. You are unassailable.

The pale runt, what of him? He was a being of craters. He was a patchwork of scars and lack. He was a hollow vessel set on course by a nonuple hand. White and wretched. In him learn the lesson of nature: the weakest are manipulated, corroborated, devoured. In him was the Beast’s tutelage: mass equals law. Grow fat from strength.

The machines that creep like ivy, what of them? Forward, back, now, then, here, there. Spread so wretchedly thin. Push your Light through the gauze of their existence and prove to them its elemental fragility. To be all in all places is to also be in none, and lost, and alone. The Garden’s paths are cramped and strange. All futures converge to moss and bone.

The coiling invertebrate, what of it? What more needs shown than a lack of spine? Not even fit to be an enemy of our enemies. There is little more pathetic than a grave in a nation of resurrectionists. They have forgotten the dance-language and ceremony-speech of true hives. They convey their wants too plainly, too clumsily, too obviously. Whispers fade to static beyond the heliopause.

The tombs of pharaohs, what of them? What, indeed? They are coming and that is all. Do they believe you will be taken by surprise again? Do they believe that the walls are weakened? Powerful fools remain fools. Cosmic ignorance remains ignorance. They will dash themselves upon the shores of Sol like gasping, dying fish. They will burn themselves on this lantern of Light like folly-bound moths. There are shapes far more final than this.

You stalk forward on gentle claws. You step so very lightly, but your touch is felt on every world. A weary Titan sets her seawall resolve anew. A hawkish hunter blinks his long vision clear. A grieving duality promises herself only a little longer yet. A changeling scholar shakes his head free of datascape visions. On and on, out and out.

Your eyes are chasms of luminance. Your fangs are mountains of light. Nothing survives your passing except by your consent.

But consider what travels in your rippling wake, Young Wolf.

See the Court in procession. See the shifting, twitching, scurrying courtiers.

Each Ghost is shelled in your image: the furs, the flanks, the fangs, so alike to yours. They spring up like roses where you have passed, burrowing into every crypt, robbing every mausoleum, always searching, always seeking, raising an army of the dead to stumble, bleary-eyed, down your golden path.

See how your march soon becomes a hunt. See how the false-wolves circle.

When did you become a conqueror rather than a Guardian?


End file.
